


Four On The Floor

by Perfica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Plot What Plot, Vehicular Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfica/pseuds/Perfica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam being transformed into a car?  Outstanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four On The Floor

Dean has a love/hate relationship with the Trickster. On one hand, a supernatural being that appreciates the awesomeness of orgies and music and booze is a supernatural being after Dean's own heart. On the other hand, the Trickster is a sorry son of a bitch that, if Sam is to be believed (and why wouldn't he be?), killed Dean umpteen ways in a single, hellish day just to prove a point.

So, occasionally taking out some psycho scum, thus helping the Winchester boys cleanse their way into a bright new world? Good. Putting Dean in bed with a couple of lingerie-wearing honeys then taking them away before he'd even got a chance to dip his stick? Bad. Immersing Sam and Dean into TV world and the whole 'Wave Goodbye To Your Balls' Japanese section? Bad. Sammy having to do an ad on hemorrhoids or syphilis or whatever the hell it was? Good.

Sam being transformed into a car? Outstanding.

Dean sitting _inside_ his transformed brother? Disturbing in ways Dean doesn't really want to think about, but he knows it makes his stomach feel funny and his skin hypersensitive.

Which is why he doesn't know what to do right this second. They're sitting the dark corner of a packed out parking lot, chainlink fence on one side, row of empty cars of various pedigrees to the other. The _Bull And Whistle_ is full of working Joe's finishing their working week with whatever's on tap and the sound of the jukebox blares out with neon lights every time someone opens the door. Dean is behind the wheel, right hand on the ignition, was just about to start his baby up to go back to their hotel room for the night. Sam, his no-good, conniving, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, stupid dimpled-cheeked brother is sitting in the back seat, knees pressed through the seat into Dean's spine, one enormous hand wrapped around Dean's throat, the other gently cradling Dean's balls.

Dean's not stupid, no matter what he says (or sometimes thinks to himself). One false move and his balls will be squeezed like an advertising executive's stress toy.

"Sam?" Dean asks, hoping he's pulling off nonchalant (but even he can hear his voice is reaching a higher register). "You wanna maybe get in the front seat? 'Cause as much as the boys are enjoying the action - "

And there it is, just the slightest pressure to show Dean he means business.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, lifting his hands up, showing them empty and defenseless. "You win."

"Say it again," Sam honest-to-God _growls_ into his ear and Dean fights the urge to giggle nervously. Damn, he thought he'd gotten over that adrenaline response years ago. His body is still caught smack bang in the middle of 'fight or flight' - one elbow will get him free (and probably, no, make that definitely, break Sam's nose) and the other wants him to relax back into his seat, let his body flow easy, give in to what's about to happen.

"I don't know what you're talking about, man, so how's about we - "

"Hey, Kit," Sam says, in a mockery of Dean's voice doing a mockery of David Hasselhoff's voice. "Why don't you open up those pistons and let's get those bad guys?"

"C'mon, man - that show was the pits! I can't be held responsible for cheesy lines."

"Hey, Kit," Sam says again, his breath weighted with aggression and pique and something else Dean can't yet identify. "You sure do have a nice chaise. Gonna give me a ride, big boy?"

"Whoa, dude, you're getting creepy now," Dean says, unconsciously arching up into the two holds Sam has him in.

"I'm not your goddamn car, Dean, and the joke stopped being funny _two weeks ago_."

"Alright, alright," Dean says, eyes darting around the lot. It's the right time of night for all good little patrons to be drinking at the bar; too early to leave, too late to arrive. They're the only people around but still, Dean feels self-conscious. "If I promise I won't say it again, will you back off? 'Cause I'm telling you, someone's going to get hurt pretty soon and it's not going to be me."

"Me neither," Sam says with grim satisfaction as he releases Dean's balls and puts his hand on Dean's zipper. Dean bucks and the hand around his neck tightens.

Dean's not a literary man but he knows that discretion is the better part of valor. His mouth is dry and so are his eyes, 'cause he doesn't think he's blinked since he missed his brother sneaking into the back seat when he should have jumped into the passenger's side, just like always. His breathing is getting heavier, slower, lungs filling up with extra oxygen to get ready for whatever the hell is about to happen next.

The sound of his zipper being lowered is a mere _snicker_ in the night but Dean knows it's happened due to the relief afforded his hard on. Dean feels the graze of Sam's fingers across the head, the graze of Sam's lips against his throat, and he gulps, swallowing down air and spit and what may have turned into a needy whimper.

"See, what I think," Sam says, using his thumb to push Dean's briefs down and out of the way, "is that you're full of shit. You'd like nothing more than a hot car that gives as good as it gets. But I'm not a car, Dean."

"Never said you were," Dean says, shivering as Sam nibbles on his ear.

"I don't have shiny rims," Sam says, hot hand wrapped tight around Dean from root to tip, stroking with tiny movements, just starting to move skin. "I don't have a leather interior that smells good after being in the sun all day. I don't play the music you like."

Sam's hand is moving faster. He's got some sort of liquid technique, his strong fingers ripple up and down Dean's cock. It's surprising and sensuous and Dean can't believe it feels this good to get a hand job.

"I don't have a trunk full of weapons," Sam says, his voice getting tighter with his grip. The hand under Dean's jaw loosens, burrows under his shirt and strokes down his neck, tangles with the charm around Dean's throat. "You can't polish me until you can see your reflection in my hood. But you know what I can do, Dean?"

Dean groans and his hands clutch the steering wheel, digging in tight.

"I can get you where you need to go," Sam says and twists, his hand moves like lightening and Dean comes like a Las Vegas fountain that's been switched on for the evening show.

He comes back to himself sticky, sated, clothes all twisted and balls all empty. Dean can hear himself pant in the humid interior of his baby. It feels claustrophobic in here, the seatbelt is wedged under his ass and one boot is stuck under the brake. Sam is quiet in the back seat and he's obviously moved back because Dean can no longer feel the press of Sam's knees against his spine.

Dean exhales, shakes his head and uses a wad of napkins to wipe himself off. He untangles himself, pushes up from the hips to tuck himself in and opens the door. He gets out and the door slams closed like punctuation. Sam's wedged up in a corner, his mouth set in a determined line and he's staring up at Dean like he's waiting for his comeuppance.

The air is cool and fresh and Dean takes a moment to enjoy it before he gets in the back, using his legs to push into Sam's space. Sam's shoulders are curled forward; Dean puts an arm across his chest and tilts him back, gets him stretched out and comfortable. He drops a hand into Sammy's lap and feels living steel under his palm.

"Let's ride," Dean says.


End file.
